Gore and his retinue of bodyguards, assistants, and aides walked into the main house. A couple of beautiful Oriental girls brought up the rear of the procession, wearing tight white microdresses. They were twins, or reprofiled to look identical. Both of them bowed respectfully as they passed Justine, who just managed not to scowl back at them. In some respects, her father could be terribly predictable. The girls would be slotted into his schedule the same way as a finance conference or a meal. Every minute of his day was worked into his personal agenda weeks in advance. She knew a lot of people speculated that he’d received illegal psychoneural profiling to turn him into an obsessive compulsive about work and the family. But she still possessed the memories of her early childhood, when he was rarely home from Wall Street before ten or eleven in the evening, spending every weekend in his study with computer screens as his only companions. He’d always been single-minded, keeping human requirements to the minimum. As technology advanced, so he acquired more and more interface and processing functions to keep him attuned to the great pan-Commonwealth financial markets.
Half an hour after Gore arrived, Campbell Sheldon drove up to Sorbonne Wood. Justine greeted him with a genuine enough smile. He was one of Nigel’s great-great-grandchildren, the youngest of three brothers from a direct lineage granddaughter. That gave him a lot of seniority within the Sheldon family, and as he’d chosen a CST career he’d achieved a high-ranking position as the Director for Advanced Civil and Commercial Projects. Though Nigel was quite adamant that being family only ever got your foot on the bottom of the ladder, from there you had to move up on merit.
Campbell had a couple of aides with him, but that was all. Justine remembered enjoying that no-fuss attitude the previous time they’d met. Today, Campbell was halfway between rejuvenations, giving him an apparent age in his forties. A trim mouse-brown beard covered cheeks that were slightly chubby; he definitely had inherited some of Nigel’s characteristics: the deep eyes, small nose, darkening blond hair. A few discreet platinum OCtattoos spiraled behind and below his ears.
He kissed her lightly on both cheeks and said, “You’re looking fabulous.”
“Thank you. I think I was just about due for rejuve the last time we met.”
“The party on the Muang Senator’s yacht, if I remember rightly. The Braby bridge opening ceremony. They had airfish floating over the yacht like yellow balloons.”
“Oh, Lord, you are terribly well briefed. I can see I’m going to have to spend all night updating myself.”
“I hope not all night. That would be a waste of an evening.”
“Ah. I remember this part of you very well.” Her gesture invited him into the hall.
“What can I say? I’m a Sheldon. I have a reputation to keep up.”
“Weren’t you with that rock singer that time on the yacht?”
“Ah, the dear Calisto. We parted company not long after, I’m afraid. She left me for a drummer.”
“She named herself after a moon?”
He shrugged. “It was fashionable back then.”
“So what is now? Asteroids? Comets?”
Campbell laughed, then paused to look at the house. “Is that really drycoral? On Earth?”
“Yes. Please don’t report us to the Feds. It’s older than most of our family members.”
“I’m easily bribed. A quiet late-night drink. Bathing together in romantic candlelight. Making love in a four-poster bed.”
Justine smiled back. “I’ll certainly consider a plunge in a mountain stream with you. We have several in the grounds.”
“My God, you’re a sadist. In Washington state in springtime? Do you have any idea what water that cold will do to a man?”
“I’m game to find out if you are.”
“Okay. But I certainly expect that drink later on. What’s the form for the weekend?”
“Strictly informal. The main decision on the starflight agency has already be taken by the ExoProtectorate Council. All that’s left are a few policy shakedowns to get things working smoothly before the Senate confirmation. If I might suggest… This gives you an excellent opportunity to explore options with Patricia Kantil.”
“Huh,” Campbell grunted. “She’s coming, is she?”
“Oh, yes.”
Patricia Kantil was actually the next to arrive. Stepping out of a mid-price-range Ford Occlat, wearing a neat office suit, also off-the-shelf, and classic black pumps. She kept an apparent age in her mid-fifties, mature enough to be trustworthy, not so old as to be losing any intellectual capacity. A web of silver OCtattoos radiated out from her eyes, so thin they were invisible most of the time. Her hairstyle and makeup carefully emphasized her Latin ethnicity. Justine could tell she spent a lot of money on that salon styling, but voters wouldn’t be able to tell that as she stood one pace behind her boss, Elaine Doi.
